


walk the line

by mikkijam



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 20:03:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17189489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkijam/pseuds/mikkijam
Summary: He wants T’Challa to cross the line keeping them apart.





	walk the line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ben_jaded](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ben_jaded/gifts).



> Boas Festas everyone! 
> 
> This is a late Christmas present and early birthday present for [ben_jaded](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ben_jaded/). Thank you for being my friend and I hope you enjoy this fanfic. I try to put in things I know that you would like. But no smut because I cannot write. 
> 
> Thank you to [quixotesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/) for being the beta for this.

Erik is attending a council meeting, this week’s agenda including new potential immigration policies, when the refutations of the mining tribe elder set him off. He tenses in his chair, preparing to read her the riot act, but T'Challa’s voice reaches him before he can, a simple, “N’Jadaka,” and Erik just stops cold. 

The sharp edge of T'Challa’s voice rings with authority and it unfurls through Erik and Erik suddenly finds himself mute, keeping all his anger locked up inside of him. It’s the same every time he hears that voice. It takes him back to the first time he’d heard it, when he’d watched his first Wakandan sunset with his cousin by his side. His lungs had felt like they were on fire, his body gradually weakening. He had known that he was going to die. 

Then T’Challa changed everything. Erik can still remember how T'Challa’s eyes had gone from pensive and solemn to hard and determined after he had heard Erik’s speech. Erik had only been thinking about joining his ancestors in the depths, having his ashes scattered into the ocean, and so he’d moved to pull the blade in his chest out, to finish it finally. But T’Challa had abruptly intervened, stopping the motion of Erik’s hands. 

“No,” T’Challa had said then, his tender eyes hard as steel, “you cannot die here. I will not let you, N’Jadaka.”

In a matter of minutes, Erik’s entire world had been thrown upside down, and he’d been unable to do anything to fight or stop it. He had lived, instead. Survived a stab wound he should’ve died from, as if T’Challa had made it happen with just his voice, his sheer will, reprogramming Erik’s body somehow to follow T’Challa’s commands without question.

The way his voice had deepened, the steadiness of his gaze demanding a response, it had made Erik’s blood come alive again. There’d been nowhere to hide at that moment; nothing he did would have changed the outcome, and T’Challa had known it. Erik had been entirely at his mercy and instead of letting Erik die, washing his hands of a rebellious cousin, he’d chosen to let Erik live.

And now, whenever Erik hears that firm, authoritative tone, he finds his body responding all over again. Responding in ways it shouldn’t, a stirring in between his legs that serves to make him feel muddled and ashamed. His dick always responds to the memory of the first time he’d heard that voice. And Erik frequently finds himself squirming in place, a hand over his lap, hoping that no one’s noticed. 

As the meeting continues, nausea churns in his stomach. Disgusted thoughts flit through his mind. What is wrong with him? Why does his unruly body react like this? Why is it T’Challa’s voice, his own cousin’s voice, that makes him feel this way?

More than that, nothing about the shame Erik feels stops him from chasing that voice. Sometimes he finds himself deliberately pushing T'Challa’s buttons to see how far T’Challa will tolerate his insolence before he reacts and gives Erik what he wants. It’s become something he’s good at: testing T’Challa, taunting him. Daring him. He craves that hard edge T'Challa’s voice acquires that hints at the temper underneath.

It still all points to the same thing: there’s something wrong with Erik. He’s sick. The strange relief he finds in needling his cousin both soothes and humiliates him. T'Challa is the only person who goes out of his way to make Erik feel at home and his generosity has a contradictory effect. It calms Erik’s anger and frustration by finally having someone listen to him, only for Erik to turn that anger and frustration back onto himself, ashamed at letting himself become weak enough to draw comfort from T’Challa. To let T’Challa steadily and surely _change_ him. It makes Erik want to lash out. To go back to T’Challa for more. 

By the time the meeting is over, he’s vibrating with the need to mete out violence after all he’s heard. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s being talked down to and the members of the council have taken to treating him as if he is some kind of leashed dog, who T'Challa can control. 

Gritting his teeth, Erik storms off, heading towards the heavy wooden doors. 

Behind him, T’Challa calls out, “N'Jadaka, wait.”

Erik’s feet come to a halt. He whirls around. “I don’t know why you keep bringing me to these meetings,” he says harshly. “They don’t like me and won’t ever listen to me. To them, I’m nothing but an outsider.”

“That’s not true,” T'Challa says. “Your input is valuable.” 

Erik scoffs. “Yeah, right. I can see why my father refused to bring me here. You say you want to help the world but your Council is against immigration. Do you know how xenophobic you sound? Your neighbors are starving, there’s always a civil war, tyranny happening on this very continent but Wakanda has done nothing to help. What are a few community centers going to help with, huh, T'Challa?”

T'Challa is in his face before Erik can say anything else, his stare boring a hole into Erik, holding him captive. Erik find himself rooted, his body still even as his knees feel ready to buckle. 

“The safety of my people comes first,” T’Challa says in a low tone. “They will always come first; that is what being King entails. What would opening Wakanda's borders do for my people? We will be sharing our knowledge, our technology. We will be providing aid and resources where it is necessary. Don’t pretend that that is insignificant. To fix everything instantly is impossible and an unfair demand to make of us. If we entered every conflict happening on this continent, we would be nothing more than dictators, imposing our will onto everyone. I will not become a tyrant.”

“It ain't a dictatorship if you're freeing these people from oppression.”

“You insult them when you imply they have no agency of their own and that they don’t know best how to free themselves. We can help them, but it is their path.” T’Challa’s voice is deep, gravelly. His unwavering gaze doesn’t let Erik look away. “As I said, I won’t become a tyrant. I am not that kind of man. I will not be that kind of King.”

Erik feels himself flushing as warmth floods through him. That edge is back, and T’Challa’s commanding tone sends a shiver running through him. He feels no fear. Instead, it’s the opposite. He craves this kind of handling. Drinks it up. 

T’Challa’s scent fills Erik’s lungs. They’re standing so close to each other. Erik could--

The taut strings holding them together snap. T’Challa steps away and looks away. The same uncertainty and confusion Erik feels are reflected there through T’Challa’s wary posture and reluctance to meet Erik’s eyes again.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” T’Challa says tersely. 

Erik blankly watches as T'Challa darts out of sight. He wonders who it is out of the two of them that’s on the verge of making a mistake. Was it him? For pushing T'Challa like this? What’s happening between them is disorientating, but Erik doesn’t want it to stop. He doesn’t know why he behaves this way, but he can’t bring himself to behave in any other way. It is so easy to piss T'Challa off and Erik revels in the reactions he gets. T'Challa always seemed to be dancing that line of tension between them, only to have Erik continually pull him right to its edge, and Erik knows it can’t continue like this forever. 

It’s unfathomable what might happen next. It’s dangerous, possibly. Wrong. Erik doesn’t care. Anticipation sparks hot all along his body. He wants T’Challa to cross the line keeping them apart.


End file.
